He Balanced On the Knife's Edge
by GenuinelyEnigmatic
Summary: Harry Potter meets Sherlock Holmes three times in his life. The first time he met him, he forgot. The second time he met him, he didn't. The third time he met him, he wished he could.
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter meets Sherlock Holmes three times in his life.

The first time he met him, he forgot.

The second time he met him, he didn't.

The third time he met him, he wished he could.

* * *

He was ten years old, due for his last year of primary school in the September.

More to the point, he was _hungry._

He'd done something wrong last night. He wasn't too sure what it was to be honest, but Aunt Petunia said it was bad and bad meant locked in the cupboard with no dinner.

Or breakfast, it seemed.

Harry wasn't _exactly _used to going 14 hours with no food. That didn't mean he didn't know what to expect either.

He was dragged out of his cupboard at half nine in the morning, told to make himself presentable and that they were going shopping at ten. Aunt Petunia needed someone to help carry the bags and both Uncle Vernon and Dudley were 'busy'. Harry would rather have stayed behind and eaten breakfast but ... well, he thought philosophically, at least he was out of the cupboard.

They'd been in Sainsbury's for approximately 15 minutes when Harry lost Aunt Petunia. He simply turned around after picking up some baked beans and she was gone... To keep himself from worried tears –Aunt Petunia hated crying- Harry muttered some words he'd heard some of the older boys say. He wasn't too sure what they meant, but he knew you had to use them when something bad happened and that those big boys didn't cry when _they _used them. He found the words very satisfying when they left his mouth, he understood why the bigger boys said them now. He liked them so much he said them again. He turned sharply when he heard the dry laughter.

There was a boy standing behind him, arms folded, leaning back on the shelves, watching him... It was creepy. He didn't look like he was going to move anytime soon either, even after being caught staring. He just stared straight back with creepy, icy eyes. Harry felt uncomfortable. He felt _assessed..._

So he did the only thing he could think of. Harry Potter stared back.

The boy was about seventeen, eighteen maybe. Tall, very tall. Harry had to crane his neck to take in his face which was... different... Aristocratic. The highest cheekbones he'd ever seen, Antarctic cold eyes and the haughtiest expression ever seen off the face of a royal.

The boy was still staring intently at Harry... just the merest hint of an amused smirk on his face.

"Rather a choice selction of words for an eight year old," - at this Harry glared pointedly- the boy laughed again, dry and humourless, "my apologies, nine or ten then. Wouldn't your mother be apalled?" At this the boy's face twisted into a smirk, cynical and ironic. Harry just blinked and frowned again, scowling at the older boy, waiting for him to figure out his mistake. The boy cocked his head, and, eyebrows pulled down, his eyes bagan to flicker up, down, all around Harry. Harry was distinctly aware of a sudden and intense feeling of scrutiny. With this distinct awareness came a distinct feeling of discomfort and an even more distinct feeling of _vulnerability... _

Something in the boy's expression changed. For a split second his frown of concentration transformed, his lips twisted into a grimace, he inhaled sharply and looked anywhere but at Harry. And, as suddenly as it was there, the expression was gone.

The boy coughed, looking slightly uncomfortable now, "Yes, well, You're... _guardian_," The boy's face twisted again, had Harry known the words, he'd probably have described it as disdainful, "went that way I think, towards the fruits and vegetables" He pointed to the left of where they were standing.

Harry nodded and started to scurry away from the strange boy with the startling eyes when the the voice called out after him.

"Harry, wait a moment please," the look on Harry's face must have given away his blatant shock and mild terror at the use of his name. The boy coughed again. "It's written on the inside of your collar..." He fingered his own collar in demonstration, making sure that no confusion lingered. The tall boy looked away again, at the floor this time."Anyway, here. You'll want these. The sugar and carbohydrates will be good for you. They're suprisingly effective at combatting malnutrition, in the short term anyway," The boy threw several chocolate bars at Harry who, for his part, looked and acted remarkably like a deer caught in the headlights. _How did he **know?** _The boy cocked his head again, narrowed his eyes and spoke again, so softly, Harry almost didn't hear it "And a cold flannel applied directly after the trauma will help with the bruises if you can't get to ice. It'll hurt less. Also, I myself am a firm believer in the 'Duck and Weave Principle". It's what I always did." The tall boy's expression suddenly grew less soft, resembling the granite it did when he first began talking. He stared for one second more, seemingly coming to a decision, and abruptly turned around and stalked off down the aisle.

He was halfway to the exit when Harry gathered enough presence of mind to call out after him.

"Who are you?" It wasn't what he'd wanted to say at all, but it's all that had come out.

The boy stopped, turned and stared at Harry. Evaluating again...

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes"

When Harry found his aunt at the fruit and vegetables section he got a harsh word, a clip about the ear and the promise of the cupboard.

It wasn't that bad that time. The chocolate bars made it so much easier to deal with. He wished he could have thanked that skinny, strange boy properly. Told him how much the kindness had meant to him, even if the older boy was a total creeper. He wanted to ask the boy just how he knew so _much... _

Harry just sighed, curled up in his cupboard with his new chocolate bars and resigned himself to the fact that he'd probably never know. He closed his eyes... Thinking of all the things he'd ask the boy with the Ice-storm eyes if he ever saw him again...

18 months later, what with magic and exams and a Dark Lord, Harry had all but forgotten that the Ice-Storm eyes existed.

* * *

**Opinions? Good? Bad? Middlin? Abso-bloody-lutely shocking?**

**Also, seriously hoping someone got the Doctor Who reference :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok, right, I am so sorry. Basically I had most of this written and then I lost it and then school and work and theatre production all decided they'll be all like "Hey man what's up? Oh, you wanted some free time? Nah, that's ok, you don't need it. Free time is for losers who like to be able to breathe freely and not have stress induced headaches. You don't wanna be a loser do you?"**

**And that is the story of my life for the past month... I think it needed more dragons.  
**

**Point is... It's here and... well, I don't know how good it is.  
**

**Also, sorry Elelith, I tried to reply to you, but my computer had a shit fit everytime I hit send.  
**

**Thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed and favourited and alerted the last chapter, the response has been overwhelming :)**

**Righto, as my friend says, onwards and upwards to the drunkening stage!  
**

* * *

The war had ended, six months ago. Voldemort was dead, the world was rejoicing, the shadow was gone and all was well.

Except it wasn't, of course. That's not really how real life works. Real life is harder and sometimes all you want is some help...

Harry had always been wary of finding comfort at the bottom of a bottle, very careful indeed. He knew what it could do, had seen it firsthand when he was a kid. He didn't want to go down that road. But, Christ, it was hard. Everything hurt, still hurt and will hurt and won't stop hurting. He needed an escape. So he allowed himself one. He allowed himself one, proper escape every Friday – a pub in the middle of London.

Every Friday he would head to the tube and he would end up in central London, right in the beating heart of the city. And he would go to his pub, and he would sit in his seat and he would drink his whiskey until he couldn't feel his head properly. Or his heart.

The routine helped Harry, the once a week escape made the rest of the days easier. The days where he was always in the public eye, always had to be perfect, the days when he had to be "Harry Potter: The best thing since sliced bread". Harry very much preferred when he could just be "Harry Potter: The very drunk man in the corner who's about as much use a chocolate teapot". Those were, if not the good times exactly, then the easier times.

He didn't have to deal with death on those Fridays either. On those Fridays not everything he looked at would remind him of the fallen, not the way it did in 'his' world. The lack of constant reminders made it easier to breathe in that pub... figuratively speaking, of course, the pub itself smelt of stale alcohol, sweat and old cigarette smoke. Literal breathing was actually slightly less desirable than normal. The point was, the dead didn't shove their faces in his when he was in that pub. It was nice. It was relaxing.

Til he walked in one Friday and some douche bag was sitting in his spot, drinking his whiskey. Common sense told Harry that he was being silly, that it didn't ruin his evening, having that man sit there. But common sense is not particularly common, nor is it renowned for being sensible, so Harry found that having the man sit there was seriously piss-off worthy, he was evening drinking _his_ damn whiskey for fuckssake.

He tried to ignore it. He told himself that of course there's more whiskey and he went and sat next to his spot, hoping it would be good enough, and proceeded to get thoroughly plastered, trying to enjoy it as much as he normally did. It was hard though, with that tall, skinny, horse-faced, arse-named _prick _sitting in his spot. Everyone _knew _that it was Harry's spot, all the regulars _knew... _

The more whiskey Harry had, the more irritating the skinny man got. Irritating-er and irritating-er until Harry had had Enough God Dammit! He turned round and he told this man Exactly what he thought of him!

"Hey, hey, hey. _Guy_. You are, aaahh, in _my _spot. And you should just fffff- stand up and and and sod off and gi'it back and sod off. You are ruining my night sir! And that's not, I mean like, that's just not cool man. So sod off and sod off and... ummm..."

"Sod off?" the man smirked and rose an eyebrow. Harry, for his part, just nodded emphatically.

"Yup," he popped, "sod off and gimme my seat back, cos it's mine. And I wannit." Harry had dangerously swayed towards the other man, leaning in to his space. It was not surprising then, when he fell off his own chair straight onto the stranger. He was surprised though, however pleasantly, when the other man caught him and ensured he sat down properly in a booth in the corner. Harry looked questioningly at the tall one when he registered their change in surroundings. The man simply shrugged. "It's harder for you to fall out of a booth, Mr Potter."

Harry nodded sagely at that, stopping quickly when he discovered that it made the room spin more than it should. The room spinning was distracting, so it took a few seconds for Harry to register that this strange, skinny man knew his name. His head shot up as quickly as it could and he glared at the man standing beside him.

"How do you know who I am?" There was hostility in his voice. He didn't like being on the back foot, and he was so far on the back foot here he may as well have had no feet at all.

The man just shook his head despairingly. "We met once before, Mr Potter, don't you remember? Before you knew what you were. You're name was written on the inside of your collar."

Harry was trying desperately to make sense of this, but his brain wasn't really working properly. He found himself wondering when he had ever had his name written on his collar... Wait...

"What do you mean 'before I knew what I was'?" He needed to know, if this was another wizard he'd have to find a new pub. He couldn't have his only sanctuary defiled by even the slightest hint of magic.

The man opposite him just shrugged again, "I meant what I said, before you knew what you were to the secret half of Britain." He looked so calm, just standing there, blurting out these secrets.

Harry was doing an excellent impression of a gold fish. "How...?"

The man smiled at him, it was slightly terrifying. "I know a lot of things. I'm clever."

Harry went to open his mouth again but the stranger cut him off.

"No, I'm not 'one of you'. Just clever." The man's voice had grown softer now, less harsh and condescending. His eyes were flicking up and down Harry, taking in everything. Harry was met with an overwhelming feeling of assessment, it felt familiar...

"I know you..." Harry was staring back at the man now, it felt so familiar, this whole thing.

The man nodded, no longer anywhere near smiling. "It was a long time ago." Suddenly he crouched in front of Harry, right at his eye level. "You should find something else, Mr Potter. You should find another way. This will lead to self-destruction, any kind of addiction always does." He broke off and suddenly looked away. Harry felt like this was experience talking, not just social obligation.

"I recommend exercise or painting or writing. Reading can be helpful, it transports one to a world that's not here, that can be nice." The man was quiet and he was intense and he didn't break eye contact. He _meant _this... "Find something else, Harry Potter. Exercise, sex, books, a person, _anything._" The man suddenly stood, looking down on Harry once again, his voice growing much less soft. "And now you need to go home."

Harry found the words falling out of his mouth without his brain really telling him to put them there.

"Go home with you?" He blushed at his own forwardness, then tried very hard to pretend that nothing had just happened. Why the hell had he just said that? Because this man was different. Because this man understood without being pushy. Because real life is harder and sometimes all you want is some help. Because this man was familiar and he wasn't a wizard and Harry just needed _someone._

The tall man was staring at him, his eyes once again flickering. He nodded, once.

"Yes... yes alright. Home... After all we wouldn't want you vomiting all over your shoes in a taxi." He then leant down and heaved the smaller man up and slung Harry's arm around his much higher up shoulders. As they staggered slowly out of the pub the tall man turned to talk to the short one.

"We met at Sainsbury's once, that's where it was... I told you I was Sherlock Holmes..."

* * *

**Reviews would be lovely :) Even though, lt's be honest, I really don't deserve them for making you wait this long.**

**And the Doctor Who reference? Was "It's written on the inside of your collar..."  
**

**Series Two, Idiot's Lantern. The one with The Wire :)  
**


	3. Interlude

**And then I thought, screw my total lack of inspiration. Fuck it, it's Elelith's birthday tomorrow.  
**

**So basically, these horrible, cruel, unfair 83 words or so, are totally Elelith's fault.  
**

* * *

Harry looked down at the ground again, before flicking his eyes back to Sherlock's. He saw the pleading there, the hurt, the tears.

Harry looked between Sherlock and the pavement. He looked between his two options. The only ones he felt he had left. Step off one way, everything finally gets finished. Step off the other way, finally back into his arms.

Harry looked between those two options of his. He took a deep breath, made his choice, and stepped of the ledge.

* * *

**In all seriousness,**

**There's a bigger chapter... soon.  
**

**Give me a few hours  
**


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